“You must be Summer,” she calls, still a dozen paces away.
My door creaks and thenthunksshut as I climb out to meet her. “Tara?”
“That’s me.” She wipes at her nose with a quick sniff. “Oh, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”
“I’m glad to be here, ma’am?—”
“Ah-choo!” she sneezes, bending at the waist. She fishes a tissue out of her sleeve and blows her nose. “This damn cat has declared war on Zyrtec, and she’s winning.”
I swallow a laugh but can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “Well, I’m happy to be here to provide backup.”
Tara doesn’t hold back her laugh, her whole body shaking. “I like you. C’mon, let me show you around and introduce you to the general of the opposing forces.”
I give her a playful salute before popping the trunk. I stack my duffel and purse on top of my suitcase and grab my guitar case in my other hand.
She leads me through the front door, then pauses just inside to call, “Pss-pss-pss! Gracie girl, come say hi. Pss-pss-pss!”
A faint jingle grows louder until a blur of orange fur rounds the corner. Grace, I assume. She’s a tabby with thick fur, and I can’t tell whether it’s all hair or if she’s actually that big. She practically comes to my knee. Granted, my brother calls me Short-Stack, and at five one, he’s not wrong. Still, she looks bigger than the average house cat.
I crouch down, holding out my hand so she can sniff me, but she barely gives it a second glance before butting her nose against my palm and snaking her body along my shins.
“Nice to meet you, sweet girl,” I coo, then look up at Tara. “She’s kind of big,” I whisper, as if saying it too loud might make her self-conscious.
“Mac thinks she’s part Maine Coon, but she’s a rescue, so we don’t know for sure. What we do know is I’m highly allergic. We’ve been making do when he travels, but I can’t give her the attention she deserves without breaking out in sneezing fits or hives.”
Mac.
The mystery man.
I’ve been piecing him together like a detective, only to end up with more questions than answers.
The name alone threw me. “Mac” doesn’t match the overworked, grumpy businessman I pictured when I answered the ad for housing in exchange for cat-sitting.
Tara was my sole point of contact through the application process—background check, references, logistics. But after I passed her screening, she insisted Mac and I talk directly.
That call lasted maybe two minutes, a month ago.
“Fair warning,” he’d croaked, sounding like an eighty-year-old smoker with a sinus infection, “I’ve had more cold medicine than any one person should consume in twenty-four hours, and I swear Tara’s messing with me and bought it from Dollar General. I don’t trust it…” His voice faded out. Was he nodding off?
Between the congestion and the meds, I’d barely understood half of what he said.
Was I tidy? I might’ve stretched the truth on that one.
Was I good with cats? Yep. That one sent him on a bit of a tangent. Something about how Grace was his only girl, and thathe’d been alone forever and probably always would be. Oh, that she had her own social media page, and would I be willing to post for her? Well, yeah, duh.
I’d chalked it up to loneliness with a side of NyQuil.
Did I have any questions? Nope. Great, Tara would handle the rest.
I’m not even sure he’ll remember talking to me.
As the house tour continues, I look for clues—family photos, fridge magnets, maybe a “#1Something” mug in the sink—but everything is perfectly stylish and totally impersonal. The only thing I learn is that the guyreallyloves landscape paintings.
When we reach the stairs, I lose my shadow, and Grace voices her displeasure with a dramatic yowl.
“She won’t do stairs unless someone carries her,” Tara explains. “Mac spoils her rotten.”
I backtrack, grab my guitar in one hand, and scoop Grace up with the other. “Every girl deserves the princess treatment,” I tell her.
